


How Kelly Clarkson Ruined My Undead Life

by PinkGlitterMasturbation



Category: iZombie (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Blaine is an asshole, F/M, Mild BDSM, Mild D/s, Poor judgment, Rough Sex, Zombie sex, but great sex, but sexy as hell, poor Liv just wants to feel something!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 22:06:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkGlitterMasturbation/pseuds/PinkGlitterMasturbation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fresh from Major's rejection, Liv has a run-in with Blaine that might not be remotely healthy, but sure is satisfying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Kelly Clarkson Ruined My Undead Life

**Author's Note:**

> No excuses. Just a fantasy. David Anders gets me hot. And Rose McIver is fucking adorable. And my brain went crazy until I wrote this. 
> 
> Also, I haven't read any of the comics (though I am interested now), and I've only watched the first two episodes of the show, so if I got something wrong about what this version of zombies can/can't do or feel, I apologize. I improvised in what I hope was a logical fashion about issues I was unsure of - zombie biology is a tricky motherfucker.

            When I rolled over, my mistake was more than obvious, more than blatant. It was the sex version of _full on zombie_ and I had done more than give into it – I had reveled in it.

 

            “Ugh,” I moaned, burying my head in my hands. “How do you kill yourself if you’re already dead?”

 

            An eyebrow that my inner artist had labeled the hue of sun-bleached blood mixed with sandstone arched sardonically while thin lips that could only be described as colorless curled in a tight, arrogant smile. “I’m pretty sure morality is reserved for people who don’t eat the brains of others, but if you want to do a little walk of shame around the room, I’ll gladly watch.”

 

            “Fuck Kelly Clarkson,” I muttered, falling back onto the Egyptian cotton sheets, my head hitting a thick, soft pillow that was probably filled with swan feathers or something equally ridiculous. For a dead man, Blaine lived the high life.

 

            He was over me in a second, his eyes transitioning to the reddish glow that burned into my brain like a car’s cigarette lighter into flesh, no chance of escaping without a permanent scar. “Baby, it’s the Dawn of the Living Dead, embrace it.”

 

            “Don’t call me baby,” I growled, but I could feel my heart thudding, my focus narrowing, and all I wanted was him. Again.

 

 

oOo0oOo – 12 hours earlier – oOo0oOo

 

            Major’s rejection was sinking into my skin, leaving me sluggish, like I was water-logged with negative emotions: sadness, self-pity, self-recrimination, and a nice undercurrent of anger. If he didn’t still want me, why was he always around? Why did he give me longing looks when he thought I wouldn’t notice?

 

            In sharp contrast to my pity party, the spark of life I had felt ever since eating the painter’s brains was still trying to enervate me. Despite my bad mood, I couldn’t help but notice the way the porch lights and street lamps cast a variety of shadows on the sidewalks. I walked to my car slowly, and the dozens of shades of grey, black, and blue I catalogued along my path began to buoy my mood against my will.

 

            My radio was turned to the local pop station, something I had done after the night of the fire. Predictably upbeat rhythms were easier to tune out than NPR’s coverage of the latest global disaster. Kelly Clarkson was singing about her heartbeat, and I thought my own pitiful remnants of a heart might just stop altogether as I listened.

 

            What had I almost done? In my desperate attempt to feel alive, I had thrown myself at Major, and thank god for his self pride, or who knows what might have happened. Ravi was approaching my condition like a virus, and that made sense in some ways to my medical training because it was clearly contagious. One scratch just a bit too passionate, one bite on the neck or stomach or earlobe that just barely broke the skin, and I might have turned the man I loved into whatever the hell I was.   Here I was, fresh off the high of solving a few murders, thinking I was a good little zombie making a difference in this world, and I had thrown all caution to the wind and had been ready and willing to endanger one of the people I held most dear for an orgasm.

 

            “FUUUUCK!” I hit the steering wheel then smashed at the radio power button.

 

            I’ve never considered myself repressed. Major and I had a healthy sex life. Maybe we were a bit vanilla, but I’ve always liked vanilla as a flavoring. It’s comforting and safe, and it is also delicious…well, it _was_ delicious. I doubt I’ll ever taste anything again that isn’t spiced with peppers so hot they count as agents of chemical warfare. But in all the passion I had experienced with Major, I had never felt longing like I did now. I just _wanted_ so badly I ached, and that desire was intensified by the knowledge that I couldn’t sate it. Sex was too dangerous now, and no matter how many brains of horny people I ate, I was doomed to be a virgin in my living death.

 

            I drove on autopilot, thinking up elaborate yet useless schemes for screening the brains I ate. My favorite was an orderly questionnaire that I could give to whomever showed up to identify bodies. _Did the deceased have any irrational or debilitating fears (like pigeons)? Was the deceased a nymphomaniac or compulsive gambler? Did the deceased have any incredibly bizarre habits, like collecting salt and pepper shakers from Nazi Germany or drinking gasoline?_ I shook my head in disgust.   I could take eating brains, just barely, but I’d never truly recovered from watching an episode of a strange addictions show on TLC where a woman did just that. I had enough work to blend in these days without finding myself driven to drink out of a filling station hose. Flaming zombie, anyone? That never ended well in the movies.

 

            Without realizing it, I had driven myself to the morgue. Ravi would be gone unless there had been an accident or homicide that required immediate lab work or identification. He was always on-call, so there wasn’t an official night shift, though he had given me a set of keys when he found out I didn’t really sleep much. It was sadly fitting that I had felt more “at home” in the morgue over the last five months than at home with Peyton. Her disapproval at my lack of interest in anything came off of her in waves, and sometimes I thought I might drown in it. It wasn’t that I didn’t want things to be the way they had been; they simply couldn’t be.

 

            Of course, these past few weeks, since Ravi knew about my condition, and since I had gained a sense of purpose from working with Clive, I had put forth more effort, and my relationship with Peyton was improving. But, tonight? Tonight, I was angry and raw and full of self-pity, and all I wanted was to hole up in Ravi’s office, eat a little brain noodle soup, and watch a movie that my tear ducts would try and fail to cry over – something really sad like _Steel Magnolias_ or _And The Band Played On_ , something that would knock the horniness right out of me. 

           “So, I missed you earlier,” I nearly jumped out of my skin as an annoyingly familiar voice too smooth to be up to any good sounded from behind me.

 

           “Yes, well, I didn’t miss you,” I returned, unlocking the back door to the morgue, the one beside the loading bay door used by the funeral homes and ambulances.

 

           The man responsible for everything bad that had happened in the last five or so months slid in behind me, a look that hovered between surprise and concern on his ashen face. “You came to the alley by the internet café?”

 

          Locking the door behind us to avoid any prying eyes that might walk by the back door, I nodded. “I saw you doing what you said you had given up.”

 

          “What?” He was trying to keep his face blank, but I could read his suspicion. Like I cared.

 

          “Selling drugs! I saw you handing something to that man by the car and I left,” I smirked and added, “and now I going to eat the brains I was going to give you and I’m not going to share, so you can just leave.”

 

          Blaine’s face relaxed as I spoke. He didn’t even look angry. In fact, he smiled in a way that would have been charming if I didn’t know what a lying letch he was. Damn him for being so easy to look at! And damn that fucking painter whose brains had given me a raging case of “lust after anything that walks, even the jerkface drug dealer who turned you into a brain-eater to begin with!”

 

         “Oh, that,” he waved a hand dismissively. “Those guys were from the supplier I used to work for. They are pressuring me to come back and deal again, but I told them no. What you saw was me handing him a matchbook with an address where I was willing to meet the supplier later to tell him that in person.” He put both hands up in a gesture of innocence. “That’s it. Nothing as nefarious as your clearly overactive imagination came up with.”

 

          I gave him my most serious, intimidating expression, the one I had once upon a time used on unruly children during E.R. rotations or grumpy old men who wouldn’t stop trying to get out of their hospital beds in the Cardiac Unit.   He leaned closer, his smile widening, and even though I didn’t trust a word out of his mouth, I found myself leaning closer as well.

 

 _Snap out of it, girl! Try showing half the self-respect Major just did!_ I yelled at myself, but it was no use. My ten beats a minute had rocketed up to what had to be at least twenty. “Fine,” I grumbled, forcing myself to step back a little. I walked toward the office and stopped at the door, speaking over my shoulder. “I’m not saying I believe you, but I’ll share the brains.”

 

         Blaine grinned and he looked so edible, I wanted to push him back onto the steel table and do things I had seen Señor Sexy do with his “little sugar flower” (among many others, and with considerable variety). “Wow, are you by any chance warming up to me? I mean, as much as it’s possible for us to “warm up.”

 

        “No!” I huffed, then groaned internally because I sounded like a middle schooler protesting a crush. “I just don’t feel like being alone, and you are marginally better company than no one.”

 

         “Mmm…high praise,” Blaine’s lips twitched as he came into the office.

 

         I could feel him watching me as I took the brains out and prepared the cup o’ noodles. As I started pouring on the hot sauce, he laughed.

 

        “Is that ghost chili sauce?” His eyebrows went up.

 

         I shrugged. “I guess so, I just bought the one the guy at the counter said was the hottest.”

 

        “That stuff reduces people to balls of tears and ropey snot.” He caught my confused expression and added, “I like watching Food Network.”

 

         “Good thing we’re not people any more,” I murmured, giving a few extra shakes of the bottle.   Part of me was delaying the moment I would eat with Blaine. _As if I didn’t want to jump his bones enough already_. Another dose of the painter’s brains might have me climbing him like the Mt. Everest of good times. An involuntary shiver went through my body at the thought.

 

          “You know, not to judge, but you seem to be giving off some…” he paused, and I was glad my back was turned because I was sure from his tone that he was wearing a self-satisfied smirk.

 

          “Pheromones.” He finished, his fingers curling around my hip, and gently pushing so that I faced him.

 

          Borrowing a page from his playbook, I quirked a brow. “Zombies don’t give off pheromones.” He didn’t look convinced.

 

        “I might have eaten the brains of someone with a particularly high sex drive.” I mumbled the last few words.

 

         His smile went from ear to ear. “Oh, that explains it.” I made a huffing sound before I even realized I had been offended.

 

         Blaine made a gesture of truce, palms up. “Not that you aren’t rocking the post Goth pixie look. You’re as cute as a fucking button, but you just don’t strike me as the type to play naughty nurse or morgue attendant or what have you.”

 

        He trailed a finger along the line of my clavicle. “Of course, if you need to work out some undead kinks, I’m up like rigor mortis.”

 

       “Wow, your lines haven’t improved with your supposed change of heart,” I scoffed.

 

        That pale finger was now at my breastbone, not moving down, just hovering. Somehow, the potential for touch was even sexier.   Leaning close to my ear, he breathed, “How long has it been, baby?”

 

        Normally, I would have objected to the endearment, but having him so close, when I needed touch so much, when I thought I would die again without it, I let go and whispered back, “Before I died.”

 

        His fingers came down to my own, taking the bowl from my hands. “Are these the ones with the zombie version of Mexican fly?”

 

        I nodded, not trusting my voice, and watched without breathing as he swirled the chopsticks into the brain and noodle mixture and lifted a big bite to my lips. _Holy shit, was I really going to do this?_

 

        “You know if I eat this I’ll go from lusty to wanting to fuck your brain out,” I blurted.

 

        Blaine laughed, loudly. “Now, see, some zombies might get a little weirded out by that choice of words, but I say, ‘Open up, baby, and let’s get this show on the road.’”

 

         All higher judgment was clearly absent at that moment, because I took the bite he offered, and watched as he deftly scooped up another helping and ate it with a grin.   He continued to feed us both, alternating until the bowl only held broth.

 

       Setting down the bowl and chopsticks, Blaine caught a drip of hot sauce on my lower lip with his thumb. “You are adorable,” he said, more to himself than to me, it seemed.

 

       “You talk too much,” I growled, catching his thumb between my teeth and nipping at it.   I saw his eyes begin to go red, and I knew mine were too.

 

       “Yes, I do,” he grinned. “But you’re going to love every second of it.”   He pulled his thumb back, laughing at the small bloody teeth marks I’d left behind. With a speed that would scare the shit out of the horror purists who think that true zombies only shamble, Blaine grabbed me and threw me over his shoulder.

_Okay, that was completely not what I expected_. “What the hell, Blaine?” I yelled, hitting my fists against his rather nicely shaped buttocks. Buttocks very well-displayed in designer denim. God, his ass was rock hard, and I wanted to see it naked.

 

       He didn’t answer, but continued walking through the morgue, humming something that sounded suspiciously like “My Sharona.” As he passed by the locker room, he grabbed two lab coats and headed toward the single, unisex bathroom that also contained a shower stall.

 

      With my body still slung over him like a fucking carcass ( _not thinking about those implications, thank you very much_ ), he did something with the lab coats and the steel safety rail that was mounted on the tiled shower wall.

 

      “Blaine, whatever kinky game,” I began, but stopped as he put me down and pushed my hands through two slipknot loops he’d made in the lab coat arms, securing me to the safety rail. My arms were not tightly bound, but due to my height, I would either have to stand with my hands down at my sides, slightly behind me, or, if I sat down on the shower floor, they would be pulled taut above my head.

 

      “Not a game so much as a test of willpower,” Blaine said, his voice low as he turned on the water as hot as it would go. “You need it really hot to feel anything, don’t you? Water? Food?” He pushed my body against the wall, his wet clothing soaking my own even further.   His lips brushed mine as he asked, “Sex? I bet you want to practically open me up, baby, don’t you?”

 

       I shook my head yes even as I tried to form the word “no,” but I couldn’t. What he said was true. Though my sight and hearing seemed to be unaffected for the most part, my sense of smell and touch had been dampened, and my ability to taste was nearly gone. For a flavor to break through my deadened taste buds, it had to be intense or concentrated. With touch, a gentle stroke on the hand barely registered.   The kind of sweet gentle lovemaking that Major and I were fans of wasn’t going to work with this nearly dead body.    

 

      He was biting at my lip, and I could just feel the sting of his teeth. “Don’t worry. That’s why we’re in the shower. Easy clean-up.”

 

      I pushed against the bonds with my wrists. They wouldn’t last a second if I went full-on zombie, and I’m sure he knew that. “And what are these for?”

 

       Blaine grinned and kissed the end of my nose like I was a small child. “Those are because you are so deliciously type A that I’m dying to see how long it will take before you pull the tiles off the wall to take control of this situation.”

 

       “I am not the crazy control freak bossy bitch you seem to think I am,” I protested.

 

        “Oh, baby, I know,” he was nuzzling my neck now; his hands sliding up my waist, tracing the outside curve of my breasts. His touch was rough and insistent, and my lady parts were definitely interested despite the fact that he was 100% asshole, and there was no love and probably not even _like_ involved in this, which was new for me. I didn’t do sex without love, or at least serious affection. His fingers were at the neckline of my shirt as his eyes turned a deep, glowing red. “You wore the skin of Ms. Perfect Little Doctor Debutante Goody Goody to hide the sweet little submissive inside who just wanted to get on her knees and get fucked, didn’t you baby? Well, you can now. No judgment. I’ll give you what you want – whatever you want.”

 

       My beats had to be up to a chest-thumping thirty by now. “Shut up, Blaine.”

 

        As usual, he ignored me. “Is it too kinky to admit that I like your new coloring even better than the way you looked on the boat? You would have been all peaches and cream, and now…”

 

       He ripped my shirt right down the middle, his fingers catching on the center of my bra as well, and I could feel the elastic and wire protesting, digging into my shoulders as he continued to yank at it, grinning when it finally gave. Obstructions gone, he pushed into my hips with his own (pressing what felt like a sizable erection against my pubic bone), but pulled back enough from the waist that he could look at what he was doing to my breasts.

 

     “Mmm, now, you’re like scoops of vanilla ice cream with little cherries on top, ” his thumbs and index fingers were at my nipples, pinching and rolling them, hard. So much harder than I would have ever allowed a past lover to do. But now, now it was heaven.  

 

     “Harder.” The word escaped without any conscious permission.

 

      Blaine shook his head, continuing the same motions. He brought his face close to mine, rubbing his face to my temple. “Not until you beg, baby,” he whispered.

 

      “Fuck you!” I yelled. I couldn’t tell if he was touching on my own, new, true desires or something old and deep, and it felt too private, too dangerous to share with him. “And stop calling me baby! I am not your anything!”

 

      I felt rage rise up inside me and I pulled hard at my wrists. The steel bar clattered to the floor, along with a few broken tiles. Strangely, the wet, knotted cloth still held to my wrists. I frantically pulled at them, freeing my hands quickly.

 

            “Wow, you didn’t even make it five minutes,” Blaine whistled as he consulted his watch. “So, I guess you were always on top with the fiancé?”

 

            “Leave him out of this,” I snarled, and I knew I wouldn’t want to see the expression that was currently on my face. It would make me feel inhuman. There was too much anger pumping through me for me to safely own. I had to do something to dispel it, to keep it from consuming me. I pushed him back against the wall, my hands reaching up to his throat, pressing so hard that his hyoid would have been bruised, maybe broken, if he had been alive. There would be finger marks on him tomorrow, for sure.

 

            Like he read my mind, Blaine nodded. “Use me, baby. Or better yet, let me use you. Cause that’s what you really want.” He brought up his hands and forced mine down, his hands slipping over my skin smoothly due to all the hot water pouring down on us.

 

            He was at least nine inches taller than I was, so when I started biting, I was at his chest. My fingers escaped his and tore at his shirt, leaving it looking like the kind of shredded clothing a zombie would actually wear. I drew blood with my teeth, and it was warm and metallic in my mouth, and I couldn’t stop. I was marking his whole torso, moving lower and lower, and it took me a few minutes to recognize that his hands were on my shoulders, then my head, guiding my path. I paused for a second, and he pressed down, hard.

 

            The push put me on my knees and a small remnant of the old Olivia protested. But her voice was drowned out by the sensation of the hot water heating my skin to something approaching human, by the thumping of my zombie heart, beating fast enough I could actually feel it for once, by the clenching between my thighs – I felt _alive_. And I had to chase that, especially since Blaine was the only “person” I couldn’t hurt.

 

            Blaine’s fingers were caging my entire skull, pushing my face forward. “Come on, baby,” his voice was light and teasing, but there was a slight catch.

 

            I slowly tugged at the zipper of his jeans. His cock was as hard and pale as marble. It immediately sprang free as the zipper parted. It was impressive, perfectly proportioned to the rest of him. A solid eight inches, with a nice girth. My own pants suddenly felt tight. I wanted this. I needed this. But that didn’t mean I had to make it easy on him.

 

            Bringing my mouth a hair’s breadth from the leaking tip, I looked up at him and bared my teeth. “Maybe I’ll just bite it right off,”

 

            He laughed, and one hand loosened, his fingers stroking my cheek in a way that was almost affectionate. “A bit extreme way to get a dildo, isn’t it baby?” He pushed at my chin while holding my head with the other hand, opening my mouth. “A detached dick isn’t going to please you like I can. Now, show me what a good little girl you are.”

 

            His cock was in his free hand, pushing into my mouth, and I let my teeth graze it as it entered, just hard enough to let him know I had a choice. Then, I put all my skills to use. I twirled my tongue around the tip, and brought my hands up to pull at his jeans until they were at his ankles. I fondled his balls, much harder than I had ever touched any other man. Blaine didn’t protest. In fact, he moaned louder, and I sucked and licked and occasionally bit at the shaft for so long that had I been alive, I’m sure my jaw and knees would have been numb.

 

            “Aren’t you a fucking revelation?” Blaine panted, pulling me up by the hair, then lifting me by the waist to straddle him. He kissed me, hard and demanding, all teeth and tongue. We tasted like a combination of sex and blood, and it was the most primitive thing I’d ever experienced. This was pure animal lust. My heart was beating, and I could feel it. That could be a new addiction.

 

           “Such a good little cocksucker,” he whispered as he trailed his tongue around my ear, then bit down, hard on the cartilage. “I bet you aced every test you ever took.”

 

           I growled. “It isn’t rocket science to pleasure a hedonistic asshole.”

 

           He pulled back, his lips spread wide, his teeth pink with my blood. “Yeah, even a dead girl could do it, couldn’t she?”

 

           My hand shot out and I slapped him, hard enough to hear his neck joints adjust. He turned his head back slowly, one hand threading into my hair, pulling hard enough that tears would have been streaming out of my eyes six months ago. He was angry, angrier than he had been so far, and I found it so arousing I would do anything to see this to its conclusion. _What the hell was wrong with me?_

 

          Blaine’s eyes scanned my face, and I tried to still my hips, which had been grinding against him this whole time. He dropped me with no warning and I fell to the shower floor, stunned at the abruptness. There was no time to recover before he was down behind me, tearing off my pants and underwear, leaving red nail marks over my skin, pushing me up until my knees, and entering me in one hard thrust.

 

          I exhaled a scream. He was so hard. It had been so long. The painter’s brains were taking over my body’s responses and I just thrust back against him, meeting every movement he made. “Harder, fuck you,” I panted.

 

           One hand held my hip, preventing me from moving back more; the other was reaching around, toying with my clit, hot from the water, contrasting with the cool tiles beneath my knees and palms.   “Not until you beg.” He gave a particularly shallow, soft thrust.

 

           “I’m the only one, baby,” he continued to move slowly, pulling out almost all the way, then sliding back in, deep, but too soft. His fingertips were like a fucking butterfly on my clit. There was no way this could do anything but torture me. “I’m the only one who can give you what you need.” He leaned forward, his chest touching my back, his cock hitting a new angle inside me. “I’m the only one who can make you feel _alive_ again.”

 

           I shut my eyes and bit my lip so hard, blood spread across my tongue. Everything he said was true, and my body was doing something besides crave brains for the first time in months. This was meaningless. It wasn’t a relationship. I never had to do it again. I just needed it now.

 

           He pulled back again, inch by inch, until only the tip of his cock was left inside me. I could feel the muscles in my cunt protesting, clenching to keep him inside. “Please,” I gasped, and the flood walls of my pride broke. “Please, please just fuck me. Fuck me hard. Fuck me until I come, fuck me until I feel like a human again.”

 

           Blaine’s response was instantaneous. “Good girl,” he purred, then his hips began a punishing rhythm, battering into me as if he would go through me, and his fingers were attacking my clit, forcing all the near dead nerve endings to respond, and the memories of the painter were triggered, and I was a fucking flower, blooming, spreading, opening, exploding in pleasure that traveled through all of me, a living energy that made my whole body glow in what felt like resurrection.

 

            It took a few seconds to realize I was screaming and I collapsed forward, my body falling the rest of the way to the tiles. Blaine smiled down at me, and I noticed he was as hard as ever. He pulled his mostly intact jeans back up, turned off the water, then scooped me up. I didn’t make a single noise of protest. I was going to bask in this bliss for as long as I could.   He threw the scraps of our clothes and the two lab coats in the biohazard bin, then covered me in one of the blue plasticized sheets we covered corpses with.

 

            He walked into the office, grabbed my purse and put it in my arms. Then, he turned off the lights and headed to the door. “I’m taking you to my apartment because you were a good girl, and because there’s plenty more to come.”

 

            I laughed weakly, still pleased to the very ends of my hair. I was so high on my pounding heart, and throbbing clit and cunt that I could have shouted at the top of my lungs with Kelly Clarkson about her heartbeat song.

 

            He wriggled his brows. “No pun intended.” He glanced down at me and kissed my forehead. I didn’t like the look in his eyes. And I’m sure I wouldn’t have liked the mirroring one in my own. But I was too blissed out to fight a bit of emotion trying to creep in. I could serve it with an eviction notice later. And I would. Definitely.

**Author's Note:**

> To anyone who might be waiting on me to update my Sherlock work, it's just a case of writer's block. I promise I'll get back to it as soon as I can.


End file.
